


Which story should I write?

by Scribe_of_the_Fey



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo Baggins Destroys the One Ring, Coma, M/M, Misunderstandings, On the Run, Poor Bilbo, Suicidal Thoughts, another world - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24696361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe_of_the_Fey/pseuds/Scribe_of_the_Fey
Summary: This is where I will let my plot bunnies do the writing. When I feel inspired for a certain AU or idea, I'll explore it here and you guys can read and vote on which one I start writing next!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 106
Kudos: 66





	1. You Can't Run Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Bilbo destroyed the One Ring after he left Erebor, thinking Thorin and his nephews were dead. Now, with Uruk-hai and orcs on the hunt for his blood, he has nowhere else to seek refuge but the Lonely Mountain. But would the traitor of Erebor be welcomed there? Or is he running into the arms of people who would seek to end his life as retribution from him for his betrayal of their King?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo destroyed the One Ring after he left Erebor, thinking Thorin and his nephews were dead. Now, with Uruk-hai and orcs on the hunt for his blood, he has nowhere else to seek refuge but the Lonely Mountain. But would the traitor of Erebor be welcomed there? Or is he running into the arms of people who would seek to end his life as retribution from him for his betrayal of their King?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Filthy orc!” the dwarf spat. 
> 
> “Orc?” Bilbo repeated, scrambling up off the ground. “I am no orc!” he chocked out in a laugh between heaving breaths. Though, he was fairly certain he could speak and comprehend the Black Speech purely from osmosis.

The cold night air nipped at his heels as he ran with single-minded purpose. Bilbo was tired. He had been evading his fell pursuers for the better part of six months. While that time had by no means been without altercation, he was still alive. But only just. His stomach was long past the point of being capable of feeling hunger, but he knew he needed sustenance soon if he was going to make it to the gates. His muscles ached from being over-used and the wound on his back was burning with infection. But he hadn’t had time to stop. 

He was filthy. A mere shadow of the hobbit he had once been all those years ago when that dratted wizard had appeared in front of his garden and asked his ridiculous questions. He had lost all the healthy weight he carried due to lack of nutrition and pushing his body farther than it was meant to go. 

The grass was green under his bare, dirt-caked feet. So different than the scorched, barren land he had seen when he had last been in these parts. In fact, the last time he had seen the grounds he was running across they had been littered in the bodies of the fallen and the bodies of the fell creatures. 

Dale, the newly rebuilt city, was to his right and he could see the lights of Erebor’s front gate up ahead. He prayed to Yavanna on the off chance she hadn’t forsaken him that the creatures that hunted him would not enter the town. He did not want to be responsible for any more deaths. 

He carefully kept his eyes averted from Ravenhill. If he looked upon it, he would surely change course to go there. If he were going to die, then let him die where they had because he was a self-centred and disgustingly sick creature. His mind had been broken beyond repair by the ring and there was no fixing him.

_I shouldn’t have destroyed it yet,_ he thought angrily. _It would have been so useful in this situation!_

But even as the thought came he pushed it away with some difficulty. That wasn’t true. Bilbo wouldn’t even be in this situation if he hadn’t destroyed that blasted piece of jewellery. 

A warg’s howl split the night air. They were closer than Bilbo liked. The gate was beginning to come into detail. His eyes strained to make out any shapes of guards or dwarves lining the ramparts. Surely they wouldn’t be undefended. And even if Bilbo wasn’t welcome in Erebor, they couldn’t allow orcs and Uruk-hai to come so close to their city and live. As underhanded as it was, that was Bilbo’s plan. It wasn’t much of a gamble. Dwarves held a wonderfully sturdy grudge and if Bilbo had to guess, after the death of their King and his nephews, they would hold one against orcs and their ilk for all eternity; which would work in Bilbo’s favour right now. If he could hide without being spotted by said dwarves, all the better. 

Although, the admittedly small part of him that he could truly claim as himself whispered to him. _You’re wrong,_ it said. _That’s not why you came here instead of choosing one of the other dozen or so options you had._

Bilbo didn’t want the listen to that voice. Logic and reason were not something he could handle right now in the face of death. 

_I don’t want to die by the hands of the fell,_ he thought quietly. He pretended he couldn’t hear the rest of that sentiment. 

The lights were coming closer. So were the orcs. Bilbo pushed himself harder. Should he call for aid? No. That would only alert his pursuers to his exact location and there was no promise that the dwarves would even hear him. 

His legs burned and he had stitches in his sides that threatened to topple him to either side with each jarring step. He didn’t allow himself to wonder how much longer he could keep running. He just would. Mirth bubbled up inside him. Yes. He would run and run and run and then one day, he would run himself straight into the ground and die on the spot. Wait. That wasn’t funny, was it? He forgot. What made something funny again? 

He was so preoccupied with his muddled mind that he didn’t realize there were riders coming towards him until they were nearly on top of him, _weapons drawn._

He had expected that reaction, yes, so why had it surprised him?

There were many of them. Bilbo did not draw his sword. However, instinct demanded that he drop to the ground to avoid the war hammer that swung right through the space he had just occupied. 

“Filthy orc!” the dwarf spat, wheeling his steed around to face him once more. 

“Orc?” Bilbo repeated, scrambling up off the ground. “I am no orc!” he chocked out in a laugh between heaving breaths. Though, he was fairly certain he could speak and comprehend the Black Speech purely from osmosis.

Only two of the riders stayed with him. The rest shot past like a rocket. What were they riding? Rams? Interesting. 

“Mahal, how long ‘as he been out ‘ere for?” one of the guardsmen asked in a thick brogue, but Bilbo barely heard him, too lost in his thoughts.

At least their mounts weren’t pigs like Dain’s had been. He didn’t particularly want to make scent comparisons between himself and any pigs because he was entirely sure he would smell worse. 

“What’s he going on about? Dain? Dain Ironfoot II?” the other guard demanded sharply.

“Oi!” the first demanded, nudging Bilbo with the hard toe of his boot. “What do ye know about Dain?”

Bilbo toppled over from the slight pressure, his body finally giving out. “I’m not an orc,” he repeated again, eyes slipping shut. “I’m a hobbit.”

Bilbo never heard the sharp inhales that signalled their shock. Exhaustion and mind-numbing pain had already dragged him far below where he was entirely helpless and lost to this world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin never expected his birthday celebration to hold anything but the usual eating, drinking, dancing, and gemstones given as offerings to Mahal at sunrise. It was his favourite wish that it would be over and done with quickly and would pass with very little significance. However, it seems Mahal does not see fit to grant his wish. Instead, Thorin finds himself swept into the pace of an odd dwarf with a silver-tongue, large feet, wandering hands, heated kisses, and; as he would learn after thier encounter, nifty, thieving little fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: E (though this chapter is M for some brief and non-explicit shenanigans)  
> Archive Warnings: N/A  
> Relationship: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, (possible) background Fíli/Frodo Baggins  
> Tags: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Cinderella!AU/Robinhood!AU, Hobbits in Erebor, BAMF Bilbo Baggins  
> Estimated Chapter Count: 20

Thorin tried not to gag as he took a swig of ale. He really should be mingling below with his guests and not sitting on the royal family’s podium, glaring at the dancing crowd. However, there was a problem. The ballroom was packed with the most horrid cacophony of scent Thorin had ever had the displeasure of experiencing. Somehow, a rumour had circulated throughout Erebor that Thorin had a keen sense of smell and tended to follow his nose. Thorin wanted to throttle whoever said such a thing! Never mind that it was true. The problem was that the invited guests’ response to this new-found knowledge was to, of course, drench themselves in ‘appealing’ perfumes, oils, and colognes in hopes of garnering his attention.

As King of Erebor, he was not a simpleton. He knew what they hoped to achieve by catching his attention. But he was unwilling to give what they so desperately sought after. Besides that, it was completely insulting that these people thought his heart was as easily tempted as his nose. As though he could not see the greed in their eyes or the pointed teeth within their smiles.

No, it was far better to stay above the relative cloud of scents. His head ached even at the distance he was striving to maintain. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was close to midnight. Mahal, he wished this entire affair would hurry up and end. But it was unheard of that a birthday celebration for a royal would end any time before dawn. Dwarves valued tradition, and it was an incredibly important tradition to make an offering of valuable gemstones to Mahal upon sunrise. No King had ever dared neglect this duty. This year, he was offering three incredibly high-quality gemstones that he had collected and polished himself. He had traveled for them, and they were well worth it. Their clarity alone would make them worthy enough for an offering to a god, but it was their unusually brilliant colours that truly made them priceless. 

Thorin had opted not to shave or shape them. Mahal had already taken care of that. Instead, he had created an inlay of intricate and swirling gold that almost appeared to be moving, so fluid were the lines and shapes. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t absurdly proud. The stones themselves had been sought after and selected for their specific meanings. Three stones for three prayers. Tigers eye for warriors’ spirit and willpower; red jasper for strength and stability; and finally aventurine, for well-being and prosperity. Each stone had a special meaning. What more could he possibly ask for?

His pleasant thoughts were disturbed when the smell from the reeking crowd slithered its way up to him on the raised platform. Nose curling in distaste, he half-considered leaving the assembly hall altogether. He couldn’t help but notice his  _ irakdashat _ had disappeared, the lucky brats. Where were those boys?

“ _ Nadad _ , do at least  _ try  _ not to look displeased,” droned D ís as she swirled her red wine around in her golden goblet. She looked effortlessly elegant tonight, as she always did, but there was a certain air of regality that she possessed that drew the eye. Thorin knew better. His sister was vulgar and enjoyed toying with people to see their reactions. Even if that was incredibly irritating, it didn’t make him love her any less.

“I look how I always look.”

She snorted and set her glass down. “Why, yes, Thorin, that’s why I’m telling you to desist. You’ll scare away your suitors!”

He grunted, face softening into something close to a curl of his lips at the pleasing notion. “You say that as though that would be a bad thing.”

“Is it not? If you don’t hurry and choose, your advisors will choose for you. Balin cannot hold them off forever,” she reminded him. 

Thorin resisted rolling his eyes but did give her a baleful side glance. “There is no one I am acquainted with worthy of my time and attention.”

Finished with what they both knew to be a dead-end conversation, she glared at him. “Go,” she ordered, tipping her head towards the ballroom floor. The music had paused so the musicians could take a break and eat something themselves. Thorin figured if there was any time to go, it would be now. He couldn’t be roped into getting close enough to someone to pass out from the strength of their smell if he couldn’t dance with them. Even still… 

“You want me to venture into  _ that? _ Mahal,  _ namad _ . They look like they’d chew the flesh right off my bones just to say they had a piece of me.”

“You may not know this, brother dearest,” she smirked, tone lifting. “But when your lover wants to eat you whole, it’s not really a bad thing.”

Ah yes, there was the sister he was accustomed to. He gritted his teeth against her patronizing tone and stood. “Where are your sons?” he asked, eyes scanning the crowd worriedly. What sort of mischief could his  _ irakdashat  _ be getting into right now? And why hadn’t they taken him with them when they’d left?

She waved her hand dismissively. “V íli has them.”

Thorin raised a brow. “Punishing your One again,  _ namad? _ How cruel.”

Her dark eyes danced and she cackled. “Oh yes, and he does so  _ enjoy  _ it that way.”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and wished his sister didn’t have the infuriating ability to turn anything into a reference to her sex life. Then, with a sense of duty-bound foreboding, he turned to descend into the cloud. He held his breath as long as he could. If he had thought it bad on the podium, it was one-hundred times worse below it. He swore he could actually  _ see  _ the scent wafting up off of them through his stinging eyes.

_ New plan,  _ he thought quickly as he weaved his way through the crowd, avoiding eye contact.  _ Find the least offensive person here.  _ At this point, he couldn’t care less if it was an elf. 

He curled around the room once, then twice, ignoring the whispers that followed him as he did so. They thought he was looking for someone. They weren’t necessarily wrong. He had just about given up his search when someone suddenly collided with him. 

Thorin froze, stunned that someone had actually dared to step into his space  _ and touched him.  _ He waited for some debilitating scent to rise off the figure. However bad it was would determine their fate. Guillotine or prison. Guillotine if it was bad, the dungeons if it was worse. He smirked slightly at the thought, knowing he could never follow through with such a petty thing, but enjoying imaging it none-the-less. 

Surprise had his eyes widening. An unpleasant scent never came. The opposite in fact. He breathed in a breath of fresh air and tilled dirt and something lightly sweet. Flowers? Why would a dwarf smell like that?

“Dear me,” a smooth voice spoke in tenor. “My apologies. It seemed I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

The dwarf was short. Shorter even than his youngest nephew, who had yet to reach majority by twenty years yet. The straight red beard that went down to his sternum was the only hair visible, as the rest of his hair had been tucked up into a midnight-blue silk hair wrap. A scholar? His appearance suggested so. Green eyes peered at him in question through his spectacles, which seemed to enlarge his sharp green eyes considerably. When Thorin said nothing, he began to look uncertain. 

“Well, then, have a good evening?” he hummed, not looking bothered at all that he had just run into the King of Erebor as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his garb and began to wander off. 

What? Was this not a ploy to get his attention? He had it, for all his tenerous voice and clean scent. Even without that, Thorin would have been curious about the dwarf’s odd dress choice. The modest brown robes that fell to the floor combined with the silk head wrap suggested he was some sort of scholar. But the biggest indicator was that there was no embroidery to signify house or standing either. He was the strangest dwarf Thorin had ever seen or smelled. An odd thing to think upon meeting someone, but Thorin paid it no mind.

People were beginning to approach. Thorin could smell both their perfume and their intention to comment on the situation. In the back of his mind, he became vaguely aware that the music had begun again. Quickly, he held out his hand. 

“No indeed,” he finally replied, stopping the other in his tracks. “It was I who was not watching my surroundings closely enough.” When the dwarf smiled tentatively, Thorin held out his hand. “Would you honour me with this dance?”

The man studied him for a moment, as though sizing him up. Thorin simultaneously hated and loved how sharp that gaze was. He felt as though he were being exposed. Worst of all, he found himself enjoying it. Eventually, he nodded. “As long as you don’t expect me to actually dance,” he quipped. “Though you’ll find that I’m quite well-versed in swaying side to side awkwardly.” He offered, smirking slightly. “Quite the expert in the field, really.”

Thorin found himself smirking back. “I’m afraid it is impossible to have me beat in that regard,” he replied, leading them toward the centre of the room. “Tell me,” he began swaying them back and forth to get them used to the tempo. “What is it that you study, scholar?”

The dwarf blinked. “Ah! Yes,” he glanced down at his robes and then back at Thorin’s face. The movement was so quick it almost appeared to be a nod. “Mostly geography and cartography. I have a great love of maps.”

“And is such knowledge in demand in your field?” Thorin fished, interested in the odd reaction, and the foreign mannerisms the dwarf couldn’t seem to hide. 

“Unfortunately passion does not often translate into food and fare, so one might well find themselves reaping the seeds of a habit in place of the premium of an occupation.” His companion admitted.

Speaking of food and fare when your tongue was dipped in silver was quite audacious. Such an eccentric hobby meant he must hold some sort of high social standing to be able to afford it, and thus would have no such struggle. Though, since Thorin had never met him before, he had to assume the dwarf was a part of an envoy either from Ered Luin or the Iron Hills. Thorin squinted at him. 

“You are quite silver-tongued,” he remarked. “Have you considered pursuing a profession in politics?”

The scholar sent him an amused glance. “I fear words are not the only things one must be wary of tripping over in that vocation, my lord.”

“A riddle-maker as well? Whatever does your Skill Master do with you?”

“You assume there be a Skill Master willing to take on such a student.”

“You are a scholar so you must have one,” he insisted. 

His heart paused for a moment as those green eyes twinkled. The dwarf was likely about to say something that would have Thorin performing mental acrobatics to understand. So instead, Thorin caught him off his guard and sent him off into a spin. He hadn’t been lying when he had told him how adept he was at swaying awkwardly in place of dancing. But he was a King after all, so those days had been firmly left behind in his adolescence. Thorin wasn’t sure if he had expected the shorter dwarf to trip or not, but was pleasantly surprised when his challenge was met with a good show. 

“I thought you were not a dancer?”

“Are you disappointed? I am rarely thrown off balance, my lord, in any area of my life. What one is and what one shows themselves to be are two completely different things, your highness.”

“Another riddle then?” his brow creased. What in the Halls of Waiting was this creature saying? He was getting lost in this mind game they were playing, but absolutely did not want to admit it. Did that mean he had lied? Or was it an omission as Thorin had been guilty of?

One golden eyebrow cocked. “Have you grown weary of them?”

Oh, this creature required him to think quickly on his feet. It did not sound like an insult directly, but Thorin knew one when he heard one. What the scholar  _ meant  _ to ask was _ ‘is your mind already feeling taxed? _ _’_ Instead of annoyance, he felt his face grow warm under his conversationalist’s focus.

So he answered, with a charming grin. “How could I when your silver-tongue delivers words plated in gold?”

The beaming smile he received was blinding. “I believe a looking-glass may well be suitable in this situation. A shame I’m not in the habit of carrying one with me.”

This was a problem. Thorin was  _ enjoying  _ himself. Such a thing was not to be tolerated. Especially in front of a stranger.

“I think the only reason you would carry such a trinket would be to reflect insults and barbs back at your verbal adversaries,” he said without thinking, irritated with himself for offering pleasantries so freely, but it was hard to think between his heated face and quickened heart. His body felt strange unsteady, but he was doing an excellent job of concealing that. If only the other two could be affected by his years of training and study.

The scholar guffawed. “I shall choose to be honoured by your honesty instead of insulted by your words,” he laughed. 

Heat rose to Thorin’s cheeks. That hadn’t come out correctly. Thorin was not in the habit of relying on verbal communication above any other form. He was embarrassed to realize that he was possibly out of his depth with this conversationalist. It was a novel idea. As King, he was required to be more prepared, more knowledgeable, and more skilful than nearly everyone else. But he did not feel the stress of those burdens in this stranger’s company. Perhaps it was because he didn’t realize Thorin was King. Or perhaps it was because Thorin had a feeling that even if he  _ did  _ know, he would not be spoken to any other way.

“No need to feel repentant,” replied the strange dwarf, misinterpreting the lull in the conversation, though, Thorin could not tell whether it was purposeful or not. “You are not incorrect.”

The music ended and Thorin reluctantly led him away from the centre floor. “That doesn’t excuse the misunderstanding,” he replied much faster this time. 

The scholar hummed. “Hmm, perhaps not,” he relented. “But it does make you a far more interesting dwarf than I first made you out to be.” 

That was an insult as well. But Thorin found himself enjoying it. This scholar had a barbed tongue. It was highly enjoyable. His companion stepped away to leave, and Thorin almost let him. That is, until the scent of the crowd curled back around him. The King hadn’t realized just how much the other dwarf had been protecting Thorin’s senses until that moment. Quickly, he stepped forward and tucked the dwarf’s hand into his elbow, leading him quickly to the balcony overlooking the sprawling city below. 

“My lord?” he questioned but did not resist. 

Thorin finally breathed in a breath of cleaner air as they left the wafting room. “Mahal,” he cursed quietly. Who had spread that horrid rumour? 

“Excuse me?”

Thorin glanced at his companion. He had hauled him out there with him to stave off the scents assailing him. In act, his hand was still gripping the other’s arm, though now his fingers were stroking it. He snatched his hand away quickly as though burned. The reaction spoke of being caught off-guard, and it was something Thorin detested. The scholar smiled slowly. Swallowing thickly, the dwarven King turned his face away to look over the city, frowning deeply. 

“Oh, come now!” the laughter drew his attention back to the dwarf, even in his embarrassment. “You’ll hurt my feelings if you make such a displeased face after having touched me!” he exclaimed, a small smile stretching across his mouth as he leaned closer. “You don’t enjoy touching me?” he asked in a silky voice.

Thorin clenched his teeth. “You are teasing me.”

“Oh,” that smile grew wider. “This isn’t teasing. But, I could show you teasing, if you like.”

Thorin could feel his eyes growing wide as he stepped back, only to be followed. But he didn’t stop it. He allowed himself to be pushed into an alcove away from the prying eyes from inside the ballroom. His guards would keep anyone from exiting onto the balcony, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be so indisposed so close to his people!

“This isn’t a good idea,” he told the scholar half-heartedly. 

Small hands pressed against his chest and began to roam. Thorin’s breathing hitched and he shut his eyes tightly. 

“So now you don’t want to look at me? How rude!” his companion chided. “Someone must teach you some manners.”

_ Mahal,  _ that had  _ not  _ sounded the same when his etiquette instructors had said that to him years ago. Not at all. He cursed and opened his eyes to look into those sharp green eyes. Those clever fingers found their way beneath his tunic and brushed lightly, over his sides. 

Those of the Durin line weren't particularly attractive dwarves. Their smaller, sharper features made them less desirable in a physical sense. Dwarves tended to prefer rotund lovers with large noses, ample foreheads, and full, long beards. They were the complete opposite of that. Some theorized their line had been polluted with an elf long ago, but the late King (who had relished having a thick, long beard) had considered such words quite treasonous, and so people had stopped saying them aloud. With all that in mind, Thorin had never expected to be wanted by anyone. His sister had been because she took after their mother’s line and not their father’s. Frerin was as unlucky as he. Just how jealous would he be when Thorin confessed this to him later?

To be touched like this,  _ desired  _ like this was intoxicating. No one should live their entire life without feeling like this at least once.

Those green half-lidded eyes stared up at him and studied his every twitch and hitch of breath. He did not wander anywhere Thorin would have protested, mostly exploring his stocky back muscles, enjoying tracing them as they flexed under his ministrations.

“You look drunk, my lord,” he murmured right against his ear. “Perhaps you do not find me so undesirable after all?”

He was not proud of the shudder that snaked its way down his spine, past the scholar’s meandering fingers, and  _ lower.  _

“No,” he said hoarsely, pressing his hands back against the wall lest he reach out and grab the tempting male. 

A chuckle that made his belly warm floated into the cool night air. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that,” he whispered, this time with his lips brushing the shell of Thorin’s warm ears. “Tell me.”

“You are not…” Thorin’s words were bit off when those fingers slowly traced over his hip bones to explore his lightly padded belly. His eyes fell shut. “Unattractive to me.” He admitted, slightly reluctantly. In some sense, it felt like giving the odd dwarf some power over him. 

He pressed himself further against the wall, unsure if he was trying to escape the ticklish heat those fingers brought or expose himself to more of it. It felt like his body leapt at every contact, skin pebbling with goose-bumps as though trying to reach towards the scholar. Thorin was lost in sensation, so unused to being touched that he was drowning in it. It wasn’t as though he had never had relations before, but this felt different somehow. His partner was so confident and sure and Thorin...Thorin was unable to do anything but accept what he was given. 

One hand was removed from his body and brought up to cup his cheek. “Well, I suppose that will have to do for now.” Wait, what was he talking about? Oh, Thorin’s response? Mahal, it was hard to think! But the dwarf was speaking again. “Next time we meet, you will satisfy my request, and in return I…” he trailed one finger down the trail of hair to his waistband and stopped there. “Will satisfy your body’s demand.” He whispered, this time against his jaw. His trimmed beard prickled, and Thorin’s body shivered.

Thorin clenched his teeth even tighter to try to keep the keen that rose in his throat inside, but his companion still heard it. He could tell because he could feel the dwarf’s smile against his face. Then, a pair of incredibly soft lips brushed over his skin, just above the beard line. 

“I’m certain we will meet again, my lord.”

The change in the atmosphere was almost too sudden for him to handle. Cold replaced heat and the air felt empty around him. If he thought he could just leave Thorin like  _ this  _ in  _ this  _ condition, then Thorin would have to begin teaching  _ him  _ manners. That thought did absolutely nothing to help his current state. 

Thorin’s eyes flew open, but his companion was nowhere to be found. His body and mind still reeling from the onslaught, but he felt lighter somehow. Like he would float away at any moment. He rolled his shoulders, frowned, then rolled them again. Eyes widening in horror, he stuffed his hand down into the sealed pocket on his robe where his prayer stones were supposed to be. 

He snarled. It seemed his would-be-lover was a thief in the shadows. 

“Dwalin!” he barked, stalking towards the ballroom. 

The King of Erebor would not tolerate anyone stealing from him so shamelessly. Still, even in the midst of this situation, he couldn’t help the sharp smile. When he had told his sister there was no one worthy of his time and attention, he hadn’t been expected to be proven incorrect so quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
